L'Amie du Fantôme
by The Three With Padded Wal
Summary: ."Christine" Carlotta shrieked. Three miles away, a very precious four-hundred-year-old church window cracked.
1. Prologue

**A/N:** No questions about the pen name—there are only two of us writing this at present, though Amy will hopefully actually start WRITING fanfiction; although if you're a devoted Christian, you'll probably prefer that she doesn'tpost ANYTHING—and we both have our own accounts. Also, we based this on the movie and whatever we felt like pilfering from Leroux' novel. Apologies for the long disclaimer.

**Summary:** A detective/assassin is hired to investigate the 'Opera Ghost.' However, both ghost and sleuth get a huge surprise when they meet face-to-face… And it has nothing to do with Erik's disfigurement…

**Disclaimer:** We don't own Andrew Lloyd Webber or Gaston Leroux. Oh, that's not right, is it…? Fine, we don't own their respected works either. lightbulb tings We do own… "Marie Destler." 'rubs hands in glee' Excellent…

**Disembodied voice:** You most certainly do not!

**The Flying Breadstick:** B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-But—

**Blood-Red White Rose:** Illusione—Amy—sold her on eBay.

**The Flying Breadstick:** Again?

**Illusione:** Just like I sold you, Steph.

**The Flying Breadstick:** Du poisson mal!

**Illusione:** You don't speak French.

**Rose:** 'holds up French dictionary' She called you a bad fish.

**Illusione:** Did I say I don't speak French?

**Breadstick:** 'mutters something in French'

**R:** 'Translating for the benefit of the readers': 'Did Dracula teach you?'

**I:** Dracula's Transylvanian.

**B:** Et?

**R:** 'And?' He could still teach you French.

**I:** Shut up and continue.

**B:** Les dictionnaires doivent mourir. (Dictionaries must die.)

**R:** Well said.

**Prologue**

The managers' office was in a state of chaos, for lack of a better term. And in this case, the room reflected its owners; Monsieurs Firmin and André had been unable to attain a wink of sleep the night before—a fact confirmed by their dishevelled appearance. Monsieur Firmin had even forgotten to slick his hair back with his regular quantity of lard—enough to drown a small animal.

In any case, the fact remained that this unkempt appearance contrasted greatly with the fashionably-dressed lady in front of them. Their fatigued demeanour paled considerably with the redhead's exultant air; the grin wide enough to admit the entire cast and props of _Hannibal_—including the orchestra, lighting technicians, dressmakers, coiffeurs, and perhaps the entire audience—didn't help.

"_Bon matin, monsieurs_!" she greeted with enough zeal that would put rabbits in heat to shame. The sparkle in her turquoise eyes would have put the North Star to shame. Her blue dress set off the pale skin somewhat charmingly, and the golden thread embroidered on the black sleeves and collar accentuated the yellow in her hair.

The two men were irritated as soon as they set eyes upon her; their glares seemed to indicate as much in any case.

The enthusiasm evanesced immediately. The warmth of her open face turned to cold, guarded ice. "Are you always so belated in keeping your appointments, _monsieurs_?" she inquired indifferently. "_Bon dieu_, no wonder the press publishes so much gossip of the Opera Populaire."

"_Mademoiselle_ Destler, I presume?" André addressed the woman courteously.

"_Oui_," she verified, though her eyes seemed fixed on the birds' nest that was Firmin's hair in an amused manner. He gazed back at her in a superior manner that _she_ was now finding annoying. "Marie Destler, sirs. You wished to see me?"

"Ah yes… A… gentleman," she raised an eyebrow at the obvious hesitation, "… Well, a _man_ of a high-standing repute… Firmin, you have met with him, why don't you…"

"_I_ met—? You were there too!"

"Yes, but didn't you—"

"I most certainly did _not_—"

"I recall with certain clarity—"

"Might one of you gentlemen kindly inform me of the reasons behind your request to have me meet with you?" Marie Destler, or so she called herself, interrupted.

Immediately, explanations burst forth from the mouths of both the once hesitating managers.

"My colleague and I wish for you to investigate—"

"André came upon the inspiration—"

"Why must you lie so, Firmin?"

"Why must I waste my time listening to two imbeciles argue over who met whom?" Marie—or so she said—muttered under her breath, frowning when the two men showed no sign of ceasing their disagreement. Sighing, she leaned forward ever so slightly, reaching for a forlorn pen. Tapping the writing implement in annoyance on the wood of the desk, she attempted to regain the attention of her potential clients. "An explanation, _Monsieur_ André?"

"As I was _saying_," André continued, with a minimal glare at Firmin, "we have been encountering difficulties concerning an…" Here he hesitated.

"An…" she prodded.

"An Opera Ghost!"

Marie stared from one to the other in amazement. Her mouth twitched ever so faintly, but the smirk was eventually, though difficultly, suppressed. "Explain, good _monsieurs_?" she asked in all sincerity.

"Well, as André so eloquently put it, ever since we have assumed management of the Opera Populaire, it has become a necessity for us to make regular visits to the bathroom—"

"Firmin! Please!"

"—Due, apparently, to a ghost of some sort."

"A…ghost." She paused, once again sweeping her gaze across both men in turn. "I assume you do not mean the literally dead, walking-through-walls variety?"

"Of course not!"

"But you believe us, _Mam'selle_?"

"It would be very difficult for me not to, _Monsieurs_," she replied after a moment. "I myself have been referred to as a 'ghost' on several occasions."

"Do you see, Firmin?" André exclaimed in triumph. "Miss Destler does agree that we are not ludicrous!"

"Did I say that? _Monsieurs_, I have reason to believe that perhaps you have aggravated this 'ghost' in some way… Any men you may have crossed during your procuring of management of this opera house?" Her eyes flickered from one blank face to another. "No, I suppose you had not thought of that."

"Madame!" bellowed Firmin, standing suddenly behind the mahogany desk, "This 'ghost' does not, in any way whatsoever, have any ties to either _Monsieur_ André or myself! The fact that we have reported a 'ghost' to an acquaintance of ours soon after our purchase of the opera house is entirely coincidental!"

"I see…" she nodded. "So your 'spectre' is connected directly to the Opera Populaire?"

"Exactly!" Exhausted by his sudden show of temper, Firmin resumed his seat.

"Madame," André said, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner (which in her opinion was unnecessary, as the fact that the ghost was a mortal man had already been established), "Firmin and I would like to employ you to remove this… delinquent from _our_ opera house."

"Ah, but _Monsieurs_," she said, "I would like to draw your attention to the minor dilemma concerning my grounds for lingering around this theatre of yours."

A moment passed before André hit upon a stroke of genius: "You could be a maid!"

"No," she stated flatly.

"A… Perhaps there is another activity you could use as a cover whilst you investigate our problematic 'ghost,' _Mam'selle_?" André trailed off hopefully.

Marie paused, deep in thought. "A…dancer, perhaps," she mused. Warming to her subject, a slight small tugged at her lips. "Yes, I can be a part of _le ballet du corps_… No one will notice another aspiring prima ballerina…"

"Why a dancer, _Mademoiselle_?"

"Do you wish for my detection before I even have a chance to investigate further into this case?" she spoke sharply. "There are girls joining and leaving dancing academies everyday; if your 'ghost' is a member of staff, as I suspect, then he shall not bat an eye when he sees yet _another_ dancer. And it also explains my being in your office reasonably well, thus eliminating all possible suspicions."

"With all due respect, _Mademoiselle_, but can you actually—"

"André, relatively little natural talent is needed to dance," Firmin once again cut off.

"_Monsieur_ André, I am not fool enough to request a position I am not able to fulfil. I would not request to become a dancer if I had not had previous experience in that field."

And with that settled, Mademoiselle Destler rose to her feet, gathering her weathered travelling cloak. "Expect to see me in the afternoon, gentlemen," she informed the managers. "And perhaps then we can organise the little matter of my pay."

**A/N:** We cannot be asked to type up a negotiation of her salary; it'll be boring anyway. Just assume she gets paid as much as any other dancer, with a little extra, and a huge payment when she hands over 'the ghost.'

We do not want a murderous mob of pitchfork-wielding phangirls after us: just note **Mademoiselle** means UNMARRIED. Oh, and review! Mask-shaped cookies for all! Oh, and Christine is BLONDE—it suits her personality. 'ducks overripe tomatoes'


	2. Giry's Gossip

**Reviewer Responses**

Reviewer responses for all future chapters will be posted in the following blog, because Breadstick REALLY doesn't have anything better to do. But seeing how the following two points are relevant to **all readers**, we'll put them here:

http:flyingbreadstick. blogspot. com/

We can't seem to get the double / to work after the http: bit…Feel free to ignore all the inevitable ranting you will come across, and just go straight to the "Review" post.

**Point 1.** This is NOT an Erik/OC romance. Now if this was under the Breadstick's control, however...

**Rose:** Poisson stupide, give me the computer NOW!

**Breadstick:** (sulks)

**Point 2.** We will TRY to update at least once a fortnight, but it's quite inconvenient, writing a joint story such as this…

**Point 3.** As for the blonde comment at the end… Well, try placing two fan fiction writers of questionable sanity in a room with computer access at 2 AM, after they've had plenty of time to inebriate themselves on oxygen, and see what silly immature you come up with!

**Illusione:** I'm ill! Don't leave me!

**Breadstick:** OK.

**Disclaimer:** No own equalsno sue.

The following is the result of a kidnapped notebook and a sick mind (literally ill--coughing, sneezing, legalised minimal attendance at school... look above)

**Chapter One:** Einstein and Eggs

Erik jumped out of the closet wearing a frizzy wig. "E equals MC squared!" he shouted.

Christine gave him a blank look. "Fried eggs please?"

"I'm Einstein, you imbecile," Erik replied.

"_Really?!_ …Who's that?" asked Christine.

Suddenly Meg Giry jumped out of the closet (like you do). "Wow! I was wondering if you could explain general relativity to me."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Why can't you be more like her?" he asked the soprano. But alas, the delusional chit was too busy dissecting a biscuit with a nail file to notice.

**The End**

**Breadstick: **Ostrich, wtf are you doing?!

**Rose:** Astrid, what the hell did you do?!

**Illusione:** (death glare for bird comment) (suspiciously) Dissecting cookies…

**Breadstick:** (backs away from glare and ends up in Australia) Hmm…this is new… (sees kangaroo) BUNNY!!! (hops in pursuit)

**Rose:** What, no fish? ...Or phantoms? ...Or SHEEP?!

**Breadstick:** (snorts in derision) What am I, INSANE?

**(The REAL) Chapter One: Giry's Gossip**

No one noticed the sudden appearance of yet _another_ ballet tart; the only thing distinguishing her from other dancers was her considerably older age (although this was not immediately obvious at first glance) and her noticeably reputable behavior. The only person that seemed to notice her manifestation was the observant Meg Giry; the appearance of her warm smile and kind words could not indicate anything other than the need to introduce herself (and subtly pry into the stranger's affairs…a woman's entirely natural curiosity).

"Marie Destler," she'd answered shortly, carefully avoiding the inevitably destructive blow to her self-esteem should she stop to compare her slowly fading beauty with Meg's youthful allure. But alas, she couldn't fail to notice the ballet rat's immaculately gold hair, carefully pulled back with a dove-white ribbon; could not ignore how her fair skin complemented her big azure eyes and how her small, adorable nose reminded Marie of the naïve innocence of a young girl-child…

_For God's sake, woman, why must you insist on torturing yourself?!_

…_Because I'm an idiot._

"Giry? I trust the fact that you, a dancer, sharing a name with the ballet mistress is not a happy coincidence?" _Don't think about how stupidly conspicuous that sounds…_

"Well of course not; _maman_ has lived in the theatre for the majority of her life, and I have the joy of sharing the same fate."

_Damn, she won't go away…_ "So you enjoy dancing, _mam'selle_?" _Go away, go away, go away…_

"Almost criminally! Mother always said I'd danced my first pirouette before I'd learned to stand."

_How remarkably interesting,_ Marie thought derisively. _Now leave me in peace!_

At long last, she came to realize the unpleasant fact that it was easier to shoot a pigeon out of the sky blindfolded than to get the petite blonde to shut up. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she quickly turned the incessant chatter to her advantage. "I'd heard Miss Daaé's performance at the gala last night… I have never heard anything so heaven-sent in my life; would you happen to know where I could find her?"

Something remarkably close to envy flashed in her blue eyes, but the emotion passed too soon for Marie to identify. Nevertheless, she'd catalogued the unidentified emotion for future reference; all entertainers and performers were notorious for their bitter rivalries and backstabbings, and young Giry's hidden resentment towards her fellow chorus girl could prove useful in the event of…well…

"Oh," she said, "that girl has vanished into thin air." A wicked smile twisted her sweet face as she leaned closer in confidence. "The press say that she wished for solitude after her triumph over Carlotta, but _everyone_ knows that she's ran off with her _lover_…"

"Le Vicomte de Chagny?" Marie inquired sharply, instantly alert. "Forgive me for bursting your bubble, dear child, but I believe I am correct in assuming that the young man knows as much of Miss Daaé's whereabouts as the rest of us."

The girl laughed; a soft, sweet sound that did nothing to reveal her wicked thoughts. "Oh, Christine couldn't care less about _him_, poor boy, but I doubt he'll stay lonely for long—" her gaze flickered to an unnamed raven-haired goddess twirling in a costume that left very little to the imagination— "not if _La Sorelli_ (she'd sneered the title of the prima ballerina) has anything to do with it… She and Philippe had a lover's spat very recently, you see, and there is no more excruciating form of torment than to hang off the arm of your younger, supposedly inferior brother." She shook her head to gather her thoughts. "I apologise, I am straying from the point… Well, sweet, _precious_ Christine has eyes only for her _Angel_…"

A raised brow was enough to prompt her into continuing her ridiculous tale; no one enjoyed gossip of the strange and unnatural quite like little Meg, and she had more than her share of tall tales…

"Christine started receiving…_visits_ from her 'Angel of Music' a few months ago… He gave her singing lessons every night in her room, and believe me, I have never seen her so eager to return to her room after rehearsals as when her _Angel_ was waiting for her…"

"Well, your _presumptions_ hardly qualify as evidence that Miss Christine—"

"_She told me about him_!" The sudden ardour in her tone was stunning. "When I asked her how she'd transformed her voice from a blackbird's to a nightingale's after the gala, she _told_ me, Marie (she started at the confidential tone her Christian name had been spoken with)—and she believes it so completely, and no matter how naïve Christine Daaé is, she's not fool enough to rant about a God-sent teacher unless she was absolutely _certain_ he existed… And he must have, I've no doubt of that, Marie… Her voice could not have improved so greatly without professional tuition…" The ballerina paused to gather breath to conclude her rant, cheeks flushed with excitement before continuing softly, almost reverently, "Christine and I are very close; we'd always find a way to steal into each other's rooms in the dead of night, but for a few months now I'd always had to go to her… And whenever I reached her door, sometimes I'll stop and listen, for I thought I heard a voice that was just my imagination…So beautiful, it was almost painful…" she sighed, gazing longingly at the wall.

Marie had heard enough. Making a vague excuse concerning unpacking, she took leave of the teenager, who continued gazing wistfully at the polished marble.

_So, I have come in search of an Opera Ghost…_

…_and I have found an Angel of Music…_

**TBC**

**And now, the laws of nature require our discontinuation of typing as it is 1:22am, and we are inebriated on oxygen...**

**Votes on Breadstick's questionable sanity?**

**Breadstick:** Poisson mal!

**Rose:** Query answered... but we would still like your opinions... (cough) REVIEW! (cough)


	3. The Divas Strike Back

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Disclaimer: We don't own so don't sue.

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Rose: I'm typing this time so no one needs to worry about Steph's obsession with writing unoriginal romances. Actually I think she's still chasing the 'bunny'

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Breadstick: (Ayer's Rock appears in the distance as Steph continues to hop after the kangaroo with wide eyes) BUNNY!

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Rose: Ok. I lied ... she's being turned into a slut by Amy.

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Breadstick: A FUTURISTIC WHORE, to be precise.

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Reviewer Responses:

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Kaya DC Pandora: Actually, we're unable to respond to your query as I am worried that answering this may give away much of the future storyline. Maybe Marie is Erik's daughter; maybe she isn't. Amy (Illusione) will love your compliment as she wrote the false chapter one.

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Tsar of Hell: Amy ... when did you get a sex change? Or did you mean to type "Tsarina"? Anyway, of course YOU liked the dummy chapter ...

... YOU BLOODY WROTE IT!

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Chapter Two: The Divas Strike Back

A week of gruelling rehearsals had passed before Christine Daaé's return was announced. That was good news - a beautiful young soprano was always an asset to the management of such a place as the Opéra Populaire. The bad news was the unexpected return of a certain Italian diva, back to reclaim her numerous possessions instead of (surprisingly) the stage.

Thank God.

"Where is he!" the redhead screeched, a crumpled envelope clenched within her grasp as she stalked towards the two managers and her unfortunate target.

The vicomte's face visibly hardened before he reluctantly (and with a good deal of annoyance) turned to the madwoman demanding his attention. However, a strict upbringing and naturally gentlemanly nature prevented him from being anything but civil towards the prima donna that blatantly wished for nothing more than for his intestines to be removed (and staying that way).

"I have your letter!" she accused, and all but flung the offending note into his face.

Patiently prying it from the "lady's" clasping fingers, the blond man flicked the paper open in order to read the patronising commands in a lowered tone that Marie failed to catch. Finishing, he looked up to see a toad's twisted face creased further by enragement.

"Miss Daaé has returned," Mme. Giry informed the assembled company, her pretty daughter beside her in her _Il Muto_ costume, evidently on her way to the undergoing rehearsal that Marie herself had escaped from.

"I hope no worse for wear as far as we're concerned," M. Firmin exclaimed.

"Where precisely is she now?" the other manager chimed in.

"I thought it best she was alone," the ballet mistress replied.

"She needed re_oh_!" at the pointed look from her mother, the leader of the _ballet du corps_ clasped a hand to her mouth, excused herself, and all but ran towards the stage.

"May I see her?" Raoul eagerly (yet gravely) asked.

"No, _Monsieur_, she will see no one"

"Will she sing? Will she sing!" Carlotta and the managers demanded anxiously.

"Here, I have a note," Mme. Giry responded, as though this will suffice.

"Let me see it! Please," Firmin added 'civilly', taking the aforementioned message and reading it aloud.

When he was finished, there was a moment of silence.

A moment _only_.

"Christine!" Carlotta shrieked. Three miles away, a very precious four-hundred-year-old church window cracked. "It's all a ploy to help Christine!" She whirled towards Raoul, sending fur flying. "I know who sent this - the Vicomte - her_ lover_!" she accused. Said Vicomte narrowed his eyes into slits.

"Indeed - can you believe it?" he inquired to no one in particular. By now, Marie had abandoned all pretence and was openly eavesdropping. After all, it was what she was (going to be) paid to do...

By this point, the witch known as La Carlotta had pushed her way passed the patron, storming towards her dressing room with her obedient servants following her. It's strange, Marie noticed, how one can fail to noticed the rejoicing of the general entertainers. How one human being could ignore a so very bare backside was a mystery to her. She turned away in disgust (although that wasn't the _only_ reason she'd shied away).

Continuing to follow the procession, Marie felt a stab of anger as she witnessed the ugly, overly-powdered _thing_ (actually, that could be a compliment, in Marie's opinion) push a blonde ballet tart in an intentionally-revealing outfit to the side like one would push open an unlocked hinged door. The managers, of course, were too immersed in grovelling to pay the action any mind (though not too busy to leer at the unfortunate girl, to Marie's annoyance).

Redirecting her eyeballs to the sky, she was greeted by the nauseating sight of a male backside. _Men_, she thought in disgusted annoyance. _Thay haven't yet learnt the meaning of 'decency'... And doubtless never will._

The blonde ballerina that had gotten unceromoniously pushed aside appeared out of nowhere, adjusting the sleeve of the maid costume. "Mlle. Destler," Meg began calmly, "witness the return of the beast."

She snorted. "Are you sure that's an adequate description of her?"

"...No, but it is the most acceptable within the boundaries of civillized conversation."

Her eyes slid towards the slightly shorter girl. "Oh? Care to share the rest?"

Meg looked conspicuously around at the rest of the _ballet du corps_. "And set a debauched example for my inferiors?" She shook her golden head. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Marie let that comment go, focusing on the task at hand. "So Mlle. Daaé has returned to us?"

The younger Giry sighed. "_Oui_. I love her dearly, truly, I do..."

"But...?" Marie egged on.

"Well... She has a tendecy to...get carried away," she finished unhelpfully.

"On?"

Meg shot her a belittling look. "I _have_ told you of her Angel of Music, have I not?"

"Yes..."

"Well isn't that enough!" Meg burst out.

Marie barely batted an eye. "No, not at all close." She levelled her gaze. "Didn't you say once that she was highly-opinionated?"

Meg blinked in befuddlement. "I did?" She frowned. "That doesn't sound like me at all."

"Well you did imply it."

Another batting of lashes. "...Imply?"

__

This is useless, Marie thought in aggravation. "Yes, _mademoiselle_, imply: hint, nudge, insinuate, entail, mean, undertone, suggest, purport, invoke"

"I don't recall" suddenly, she stopped. "This is because I'm blonde, isn't it?" she accused. "You come in here, and you see a lovely girl with beautiful long hair and immediately assume that because she is employed as a dancer, evidently she possessed neither skill nor intelligence with which to apply any other position, don't you?"

"If a pretty girl has no skill or any other positive trait, she'll simply marry wealth. That's the aristocracy's _raison d'être_." She paused, collecting her thoughts, warming to her new topic. "If a girl has talentof any kindshe will simply employ those talents to her advantage. But enough of that; I've a grave question to ask:

"Is Christine courting a raving psychopath?"

Meg merely shrugged. "Wouldn't put it pass her. She's thick enough."

"So you think _Christine _is stupid ..." Marie paused for thought, "Is this based on _her_ hair colour?"

"Christine is just naïve and misled. And besides, aren't red-haired people supposed to have fiery tempers?"

"As you have just pointed out, people who judge an individual's personality by their hair colour alone are generally shallow."

"Meg!" her mother admonished. "You gossiping little chit, get yourself positioned in the left wing _immediately_!"

The ordered girl looked towards her mother in annoyance. "One moment!"

When she'd turned her gaze back to her companion, she was gone.

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TBC

Sorry for the delay! We'll try to get the next one written within the week! Please review!

Oh, and if you will be so kind as to view this profile and see other works of the authors, we will be very grateful. Don't worry - they're better than this because there are no artistic clashes! Also, it's The Flying Breadstick's birthday on Wednesday - look at hers at least!


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